


words of folly

by eryn_laegolas



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Things, Alternate Universe, Canon Relationships, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Minor Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 18:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11856915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eryn_laegolas/pseuds/eryn_laegolas
Summary: Five conversations Obi-Wan never had.





	words of folly

i.

“I hear congratulations are in order. Master Qui-Gon must be proud.”

How long has it been now? Months, perhaps even nearly a year.

Anakin looks as he was the last time they saw each other — the same young animated face, bright enough to hide those same old jaded eyes. The only difference was his hair, now unbound and nearly touching his shoulders, unadorned by the braid Obi-Wan has grown accustomed to seeing.

“You weren’t at the ceremony,” Anakin says mock-seriously. “Really, Obi-Wan, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were avoiding me.”

“You caught me,” Obi-Wan deadpans. “Of course I spent all that time out in Ryloth, getting kidnapped and injured and whatnot, because I simply can’t stand the sight of you.”

Anakin glares, looking suspiciously close to sticking his tongue out. “Very funny, Master.”

“You’re not a Padawan anymore, Anakin.”

Obi-Wan can’t quite hide the warm pride in his voice as he says it, just as Anakin can’t quite stifle his broad smile.

It lasts only for a moment, Anakin's expression slipping into a grimace as he looks away.

“It’s silly but. . .” he trails off, smiling self-deprecatingly. “I used to think you hated me.”

Something rustles in Obi-Wan’s chest.

(It’s the same something that stirs when Anakin presses his face against the window when it rains, or when he once snuck into Obi-Wan’s room after a nightmare because Qui-Gon had been out on a mission, or when he wielded a lightsaber for the first time.)

“I could never hate you,” Obi-Wan says, the words quiet but no less genuine. “Just because our Master plays favorites — ”

Anakin cuts him off with a derisive snort.

“I can’t believe you still think that.” Anakin rolls his eyes. “You’re a great Jedi, Obi-Wan. Our master thinks so, I think so, the Council thinks so — you might just be the only who doesn’t.” He pauses, as if to savor Obi-Wan’s surprise, before shrugging and adding flippantly, “Not as great as me, obviously, but you did your best.”

Obi-Wan blinks, and then he laughs, loud, sudden, and uncaring. He hasn’t realized how much he’s missed this — their easy banter, Anakin’s lopsided grins, and the frankly appalling jokes that can somehow crack his composure.

Anakin is taller than him now, but Obi-Wan can’t help but ruffle his hair like he used to. Predictably, Anakin bats his hand away, smiling all the while.

“Hey, we should go to Dex’s,” Anakin suggests. “I’m not gonna let you eat awful cafeteria food when you just got back.”

“I have to report to the Council — ” Obi-Wan starts, his protest half-hearted.

Anakin makes an impatient gesture with his hand. “They can wait. My stomach can’t. Let’s go.”

Obi-Wan tries to look disapproving, fails, and lets Anakin drag him out the Temple.

Nothing has changed between them despite Obi-Wan’s months away, and the thought makes him feel unexpectedly lighter.

Whatever resentment he had over Anakin’s apprenticeship — and there had been quite a lot, he’ll admit, petty though his reasons had been — had faded long ago. It was hard to hold on to them, when Anakin simply grows on you, latching and clinging like a particularly annoying little sibling.

(And harder still to deny that this is exactly what Anakin is — a brother, in all but blood and name.)

 

ii.

“I have taught you everything I know, and you have become a far greater Jedi than I could ever hope to be.”

“Don’t lie, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says. There is none of that proud glint in his eyes, no hint of his cocky smile, just a bitter twist of his lips. “You and I both know I’ve never been a Jedi.”

The words are on the tip of Obi-Wan’s tongue.  _No, you’re not,_  he wants to say.  _You’re something better. You always have been._

“Good-bye, Anakin,” he says instead, holding out his hand.

Anakin frowns, but he takes the offered hand, his grip firm. A dozen thoughts seem to whir in his mind at once, his eyes flashing with something Obi-Wan cannot name.

It’s Obi-Wan who ends the handshake.

“Good-bye, Master,” Anakin says.

It all feels inexplicably final that it makes Obi-Wan’s heart heavy, weighed down by unspoken truths he never had the luxury to indulge.

(It has always been like this between them — heavy silences brimming with secrets and tension, quiet moments that spoke of hidden things.)

He could say them aloud now, just this once. There is no Code that can stop him, no pairs of watchful eyes fixed on either of them. It should be easy, to put into words all those unsaid things. And yet —

Obi-Wan doesn’t.

(Someone has to be the perfect Jedi. And the galaxy has always needed Anakin Skywalker more than it needed Obi-Wan Kenobi.)

Nothing more is said between them. His face is carefully neutral as he turns away, his back to the Temple, to Anakin. They will never see each other again, Obi-Wan knows. He may not regret leaving, but it doesn’t make the thought easier to bear.

He tries not to dwell on this for long. After all, Satine is waiting.

 

iii.

“You — you’re alive.”

“I am.”

“But you — I saw you — everyone saw. . . the Emperor said — ”

An amused scoff. “As if anyone should ever take Palpatine at his word.”

“I thought — ” Obi-Wan stops, his voice thick with emotion. “I thought you were dead.”

“I was dead.” Anakin nods, looking very much not-dead, but older and wearier than Obi-Wan has ever seen him. “From a certain point of view.”

They were words he said once, a lifetime ago, when exasperated reprimands had been the closest thing to affection he could offer.

“I’ve heard that before,” Obi-Wan says. The knots in his throat tighten and it’s a wonder he can still even speak. “But I never thought I’d hear it from you.”

“I did pay attention to your lectures, you know. Not always, but. . . .” A small, rueful smile creeps over Anakin’s face. “You were a good teacher, Obi-Wan. I don’t think I ever thanked you for that.”

He did though, in not so many words.

Obi-Wan remembers the last time he had seen Anakin, more clearly and more vividly than any other memory he had of those waning days of the Republic. He can repeat their goodbyes word for word, and he will never be able to admit just how dearly he holds those moments, how often their parting words replayed in his mind when he lets his thoughts wander to those final, glorious days of the Jedi.

(Not for the first time, he wonders what would have happened if he had followed Yoda’s orders. Would they still be standing here, in the middle of Yavin, grasping for an echo of their old familiarity? Or would they be on opposite sides, Obi-Wan bitter and shattered on one, and Anakin twisted beyond hope on the other?)

“You  _fell_.” He tries to ignore how broken it sounds, how the thought still makes his head ring with a silent scream.

“I did.” Anakin shrugs, looking so unbelievably nonchalant that a part of Obi-Wan suddenly wants to punch him, no matter how un-Jedi it was.

But there’s another part, bigger and more overwhelming than the last, that wants to pull Anakin close, into one of those warm but awkward hugs he gave sparingly two decades ago, until he’s absolutely, unequivocally certain that this isn’t just another dream.

Then again, Obi-Wan has never had a dream this elaborate — certainly not one that involves a rickety-looking ship, a scruffy teenager, and a little girl who looks unmistakably like her mother.

“But I came back,” Anakin continues.

“That’s not possible — ”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Anakin — ”

 _I missed you_ , Obi-Wan almost says, but what comes out instead is sharp and accusatory. “Padmé knew.”

Another scoff, but it’s not of wry amusement this time. Anakin’s eyes shine at the mention of Padmé, and all of Obi-Wan's doubts are gone in an instant. “Of course she did. It was her idea.”

“But how could she have. . . for  _ten years — ”_

“My wife hid her involvement in the Rebellion for longer than that. I’m pretty sure there isn’t anything Padmé  _can’t_  do.”

“She certainly has played the part of grieving widow very well,” he agrees. There’s silence for several seconds before he asks, in a pathetically unsteady voice, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Anakin flinches, looking stricken, and he takes a deep, heavy breath. When he speaks, every word sounds indescribably grave.

“You always said that once you fall, there’s no going back.” He looks older than he should be, and something about him makes him seem unfathomably lonely. “And I fell, Obi-Wan. I really was a Sith, if only for a while. If Padmé hadn’t — ”

He exhales, eyes looking down at his gloved hand. “You thought I was beyond saving, and — and I don’t blame you. All this time. . . I’ve never stopped asking myself if you were right.”

There’s a lump in his throat that Obi-Wan can’t swallow, and it takes him a while to find his bearings. “That never stopped you before,” he murmurs. “You always loved proving me wrong. . . . And you’re still proving me wrong, even after all these years.”

Anakin turns to face him fully, looking like he had just returned from somewhere far out of Obi-Wan’s reach. “Thank you. For watching over them.”

It’s an unnecessary thing to say — _of_ _course_ he watched over what was left of Anakin's family, or what he thought was left of it. The implication that he could have ever done otherwise almost makes him roll his eyes, but Obi-Wan, for all his quips, has enough tact to resist the urge.

Though maybe it still shows, because Anakin laughs, a sudden but welcomed sound Obi-Wan never thought he’d hear again.

“So I heard you’ve been telling my son stories about me,” Anakin says. “Only good ones, I hope.”

(In another life, Luke Amidala Naberrie would have had his father’s name. Maybe then Obi-Wan would have been able to look at him and not find another boy staring back.)

“He has your eyes.” After a beat, Obi-Wan adds with a huff, “And your habit of tinkering with droids.”

Anakin smirks. “At least it’s not my temper.”

“Perish the thought. I don’t think I can handle all that trouble a second time.”

“I’m definitely making you babysit Leia one day.”

On the other side of the room, where they had gone to give them a semblance of privacy, Padmé is fussing over her young rescuers. One is fiddling with the blanket she draped over his shoulders, awkward but pleased under that cynical, hardened manner. The other is staring at Padmé with stars in her eyes, gripping her hand like she's afraid of letting go.

“You braid her hair,” Obi-Wan says. The thought of Anakin patiently braiding his daughter’s hair into elaborate updos makes him grin.

Anakin rubs the back of his neck, chuckling sheepishly. “Yeah, well — I’m not very good at cutting Leia’s hair, so we just. . . kind of avoided it after the — uh — incident with my ‘saber.”

Obi-Wan laughs. It sounds strange to his ears, low and rusty and unfamiliar, but Anakin’s smile is as bright as he remembers, and it makes something warm and fragile settle in his chest.

“Come on,” Anakin beams, and for a moment Obi-Wan can pretend that all is well. “I’ll introduce you. She’s wanted to meet her Uncle Obi-Wan for ages.”

 

iv.

It seems the galaxy can’t decide whether it wants to celebrate or to mourn.

The past few days — or is it weeks now? — has been a blur of memorials and award ceremonies and parades. All over Coruscant and beyond, people garbed in black line the streets, an endless procession of mourners cheering amid music and confetti, their expressions alternating from somber to buoyant.

Surely, the news has reached even the Outer Rim by now. His name has been the only thing on everyone’s lips, his face practically a permanent fixture on the HoloNet.

The end of the war, the fall of the Sith — even with all this, everything seems  _wrong_  somehow. It shouldn’t be possible, not when the Force grows brighter day by day, almost blinding the Jedi with its brilliance.

(But then, how can that be right? How can the shroud of darkness have fallen, how can the Force have so much light, when Obi-Wan feels like the stars had gone out?)

In between Council meetings and posthumous ceremonies, Obi-Wan finds himself sitting inside a lavish penthouse suite, in the company of the only other person who doesn’t have the heart to join in the celebrations.

“He was my brother,” he whispers into the quiet.

Padmé’s face breaks into a wistful smile. “He was my husband.”

Obi-Wan starts, looking at her with surprise before he quickly schools his expression into his stoic mask. His eyes turn back to the city below them, unseeing.

He releases a shaky breath. “When?”

“After Geonosis,” she says, her eyes swimming with tears. “He wanted to tell you, but he. . . he was always so afraid of disappointing you.”

A trembling hand reaches out for the half-empty glass on the table, and Obi-Wan downs the drink in one gulp. The alcohol burns his throat, but he lets himself pretend it helps.

There is so much he doesn’t know about Anakin, he realizes with a pang, so much his former Padawan had never told him.

(And — something unpleasant lurches in his stomach, cold and biting in the terrible emptiness — so much he never told Anakin in turn.)

Outside, the city vibrates with energy, the sky alive with fireworks, but the steady thrum of music and chanting is muted by the thoughts drumming in his head.

 

v.

“Honestly, Obi-Wan,” Padmé tuts. “The way you talk about Anakin — you make it sound like he’s dead.”

“He  _is_  dead to me,” Obi-Wan says dryly.

“I heard that,” Anakin calls out from the kitchen.

Luke is sitting on Obi-Wan’s lap, his favored spot for listening to Obi-Wan’s stories, and where he has been listening to the entire exchange with a quizzical tilt of his head.

“Why do you say that, Uncle?” he asks.

Straight-faced, Obi-Wan looks at the boy dead in the eye. “Luke, you’re going to find that many of the truths we cling to depend greatly on our own point of view.”

Luke stares at him with furrowed eyebrows, and Obi-Wan holds back a sigh of disappointment. His profound wisdom has just been wasted on a toddler.

Just then, Anakin walks in with a tray of steaming mugs in hand. Luke immediately leaps from Obi-Wan’s lap and into his father’s arms, Anakin’s reflexes the only thing preventing the tea from spilling over the buff carpet.

Padmé, unbothered, simply takes the now levitating tray and adds a sugar cube to her mug.

It’s been four years now, but Obi-Wan is still unused to the sight of Anakin without his Jedi robes and Padmé with her hair loose and unbound. They’ve always had an easy grace about them, but  _this_  — this is different.

They’re more relaxed, somehow. Less rigid. Even the set of their shoulders is less stiff.

It’s all so. . .  _domestic._

“So what has your Uncle been telling you this time?” Anakin says lightly, settling on the couch between Padmé and Obi-Wan. “If they make your dad look stupid, then they’re all lies.”

Obi-Wan frowns. “As if I would ever lie to your children.”

“He’s telling me all about Cato Neimoidia,” Luke says eagerly, the picture of innocence.

“Is he now?” Anakin’s scarred eyebrow rises.

“Yeah! He said he saved you from — ”

“Isn’t it time for you to go to bed, Luke?” Obi-Wan cuts in.

“But  _Ben,”_  Luke whines, somehow giving the name a second syllable. “I want to know all about Cato Neimoidia! Dad says you  _never_  let him talk about it.”

“Yeah, Obi-Wan,” Anakin nods, the corners of his mouth curling into a sly, knowing grin. “You  _never_ let me talk about it.”

Obi-Wan glares at him over Luke’s head. “Leia’s already asleep. It’s not fair that your sister won’t get to hear the story — ”

“I’ll wake her up!” Luke exclaims.

“There’s no need for that,” Padmé says swiftly. Obi-Wan exhales in relief.

Ah, yes. Padmé. His ally. His friend. The voice of reason. The —

“You can tell her yourself in the morning.”

_Traitor._

Obi-Wan looks at her, betrayed. Padmé ignores him, sipping her tea calmly.

“ _Please,_  Uncle Obi-Wan?”

He makes the mistake of looking down at the earnest pout directed at him, those familiar blue eyes wide with the full force of their evil Skywalker powers.

Obi-Wan knows a losing battle when he sees one.

“All right,” he sighs.

Luke beams, and  _honestly_. After twenty years of this, Obi-Wan should have better resolve by now.

“Dad, can you tell the story this time? Ben already told me the first part.”

Anakin nods as Luke rests his head on his mother’s lap. Obi-Wan listens silently as Anakin tells his story, hiding his smile behind the rim of his mug.

Thankfully, Luke is asleep before Anakin can reach the more interesting parts of the story, and Padmé leaves with the three-year-old snoring softly in her arms.

Anakin laughs, propping his feet on the coffee table.

“As much as he says he likes listening to my stories, Luke never stays awake long enough for me to finish,” Anakin observes, shaking his head fondly. “But he’s not like that with you. You’ve always been a good storyteller.”

Obi-Wan feels his own smile turn melancholy. “Only because I've always had a good audience.”

Anakin turns to him with that look that had taken Obi-Wan years to decipher. They’re quiet for a while, and the vibrant city below them sounds strangely muffled.

(It has always been like this between them — heavy silences brimming with secrets and tension, quiet moments that spoke of hidden things. But now these moments are easier, lighter. The places where gaping distances used to be are now nothing more than carefully mended cracks.)

“They like your stories better though.” Obi-Wan heaves his favorite world-weary sigh, and the moment is gone as quickly as it came. “For the life of me, I’ll never understand why. . . .”

The smile on Anakin’s face is the kind that only proud fathers wear. It’s one that Obi-Wan himself has worn —  _still wears_ , he amends — time and again.

It’s a smile that suits Anakin far better than any Jedi title ever did.

He lifts his chin smugly. “My children have good taste.”


End file.
